


going, going, gone

by lilabut



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Freeform, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Non-Linear Narrative, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 05:12:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13159989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilabut/pseuds/lilabut
Summary: five things karen could give frank and one thing she could not





	going, going, gone

**one: comfort**

 

He does not want to come to her like this. Skin covered in bruises – like ink spilled over the rough, scarred canvas of his skin. Caked in blood, the coppery smell of it pungent and strong. A bullet still lodged in his arm.

 

This part of his life, he does not want it to be a part of hers. He can't allow it to taint her, spoil her. Suffocate the light that shines in her.

 

But he's growing tired. So tired of it all and he can't fight the need to be with her. For her soft, delicate hands to wipe away the blood and the dust, sew up his wounds and soothe the dull throbs and sharp pulls of his muscles.

 

Again and again, he drags himself back into her arms and she always waits with them wide open. Allows him to fall into her embrace and just be calm. Even the prick of the needle as she stitches him up bears no pain.

 

 

 

After, when he's clean and the pain killers start to dull his senses, he falls asleep in her arms. Fingers dragging across his scalp through his buzzed hair, the hum of her breath warm and soothing like nothing else can be in this world. Not anymore.

 

She's it.

 

She's the only comfort he knows.

 

**two: hope**

 

Most days, he struggles to understand what she sees in him. Why she allows him into her life, why she fights with teeth and nails to hold him there.

 

Then again, it's what he told her to do. But he never meant himself when he gave her that advice so long ago.

 

_You have everything. So hold onto it. Use two hands and never let go._

 

Shit, if only he could give her the life she deserves. But that is never going to be something he can offer. It's not who he is, not anymore. Karen... She knows it. And yet she chooses him. Over and over.

 

Every time he stays for dinner, stays the night. Every time she curls up against him on the couch, every time she drags him into a shitty diner for a cup of steaming, black coffee. Every single day, she makes a choice.

 

He'll stay until the day she decides he's not worth it. All the blood and the gun powder that stains her bathroom tiles. All the sleepless nights when he doesn't return. All the weeks and months she doesn't hear from him over and over because above all, he needs to keep her safe.

 

Until the day she decides he's just another shit bag who is ruining her life, he'll stay.

 

 

 

Some days, he wishes she would send him away. Because, _hell_... He can't do it. Can't make the cut himself. All she needs to do is take his hand as they walk past the river and he's lost all over again.

 

Maybe he never really knew how to quit. And shit, she's making it so hard. With her smiles and laughs and the trust she has in him. Unbroken.

 

It makes him wonder if that day will ever come when he's no longer enough.

 

And when she kisses him, all gentle but determined with lips as soft as a damn flower petal, there's a flicker of hope burning bright and sparkly inside of him. Hope that she will never make that decision.

 

 

 

Doesn't matter that he knows it would be better for her. That she's better of without him.

 

**three: warmth**

 

He didn't know how cold he was until she takes him into her bed. He was freezing until her cherry-stained lips melt against his marred skin. Until her pale hands roam over his body, leaving trails of fire in their path.

 

Even now, he's trembling as he holds himself above her.

 

Blonde hair is spilled over the pillow like a goddamned halo. Her fingers ghosting over his cheek, his neck, his shoulders. Long, silky soft legs curled around his hips. Holding him close.

 

When he sinks into her, he shudders. Damn well nearly _whimpers_ because he's burning at the stake and shit, does he ever deserve it. He's burning away into ashes but not her. No. She's glowing like a star in the night sky, panting his name like a fucking prayer. Again and again, rocking into him as he struggles to find a rhythm. It's all too much.

 

 

 

After, he rests his head between her breasts, listens to the rapid beat of her heart. She's holding him, damp skin warming him like licking flames.

 

Fingers trace over the countless scars that are strewn over his body, but his lips trace her moles instead. Little freckles here and there, a tiny scar. He memorizes her, bites away the tears that burn in his eyes.

 

It doesn't matter how strong he knows she is. Right now, she feels delicate and as fragile as glass, his hands too large, too calloused, rough enough to break her in half.

 

He can't let that happen.

 

But the warmth she offers, it's something he can't deny himself.

 

**four: joy**

 

Once, nothing brought him more joy than carrying his baby girl on his shoulders. Her chubby little fingers pulling relentlessly on his ears. Blowing raspberries against her round belly.

 

Teaching his son to ride a bike, swelling with pride when he drove down the street without a tumble. Ruffling through his dark hair when he pulled off the helmet after.

 

Holding Maria in his arms. Swaying to soft music, the taste of a good beer and home cooked dinner still on his tongue, the kids asleep.

 

 

 

Now, all those memories bring him pain. Replaced by something else.

 

His baby girl's body, heavy and lifeless in his arms.

 

His son's blood speckled over his face.

 

Maria's scream as the bullets tore through her, tainting the blue flowers on her dress red.

 

Maybe the happy times they shared are lost forever. Maybe he'll never look back and remember them how they were. Before that day in the park.

 

 

 

Now, slowly, he learns to accept that other things can make him feel the way he used to. Light. Carefree. Happy.

 

Grabbing a beer with Curtis.

 

Watching Leo in her school play.

 

Going to a game with David and Zach.

 

And Karen.

 

_Karen._

 

The way she giggles when he nuzzles her slender, pale neck.

 

The way she laughs at his stupid jokes.

 

The way her voice turns breathy when she pulls him close.

 

The way her lips curl when she drapes herself all over him, sated and slick with sweat – just like him.

 

The way she _listens_.

 

The way her heartbeat turns erratic when he rests his ear against her breast to listen.

 

The way the sunlight catches in her gold hair.

 

The way her cheeks flush pink in the cold wind.

 

The way she says his name. Annoyed, delighted, breathless, softly, determined.

 

 

 

These are new memories he makes. And he clings to them, holds them together with white-knuckled fists because he knows how easily they can turn brittle and crumble into dust.

 

He's holding on with both hands.

 

Not letting go.

 

**five: peace**

 

It takes him a year to put Billy into the ground where he belongs – where he should have put him from the start. It was a mistake to allow him to leave, one he realized much too late.

 

It's a long year. The kind that never seems to end, every day, week, month spreading on and on and on. Grey and dull and bleak.

 

But then he does it. Puts a bullet through his best friend's skull.

 

And the dust settles around him.

 

Around _them_.

 

 

 

She makes it seem so easy.

 

Introduces him to friends, colleagues, strangers. He's _Pete_ and they met through work. If he indulges – if he allows himself – then he might even believe her. She looks proud to be by his side. Happy to hold his hand.

 

And still, even now, he's afraid he's ruining her.

 

The way he ruins every good thing in his life.

 

 

 

But things change. They turn quiet around them.

 

Their lives slowly cease to be gunfire and clotting blood, the ring of explosions and the rush of adrenaline.

 

Instead, he gets to cook with her on Sundays, gets to make love to her every lazy morning he wants to, gets to fall asleep with his head in her lap as she reads a book, an article, a magazine.

 

 

 

He loves her. It's something he has known for so long but it still hurts to admit. Every time he does, his heart fractures a little more. Not enough to break him but the ache remains. He loved his wife. He _still_ loves his wife.

 

But he loves Karen, too. With everything he has left to give.

 

 

 

_I love you,_ she murmurs one day into the thickness of his hair that he's growing out again to avoid sideway glances and panicked, hushed whispers. He's not Frank Castle anymore. Not to anyone but her and his handful of friends.

 

Her words curl around his heart, make his breath stutter more than it would of he was staring down the barrel of a gun right now.

 

She doesn't expect him to say it back but he does. With his calloused hands he cradles her face, nudges the tip of his nose against hers. And he tells her.

 

 

 

It doesn't feel like a betrayal anymore.

 

**one: an after**

 

He thinks about it often. What she said to him that night by the river.

 

_I want there to be an after for you._

 

He goes out there at night less and less these days. Tying up loose ends. Sometimes, not for weeks at the time. The urge he once felt is slowly simmering down to nothing but embers. In the silence it leaves behind, he has time to wonder.

 

 

 

It's so easy to imagine. To paint the picture.

 

Him and Karen.

 

Maybe, one day soon, he'll ask her to marry him. If he's ready for it.

 

He might be.

 

They could find a bigger place, somewhere a little more quiet. Safer. Make it a home for them.

 

Just last week, they talked about getting a dog. Eating Chinese food, the topic came up and her eyes lit up at the prospect as much as his did. One or two.

 

It'd be easy. This future.

 

Some nights, he imagines her with a baby in her arms. _Their_ baby. Just the thought is enough to make him ache with longing and agony alike. He'll never be ready for that again. Has no room in his heart and it wouldn't be fair. Not to himself, not to Karen. Not to the child that could be their own.

 

Still, he imagines it.

 

Every _after_ that he imagines, they all revolve around her.

 

 

 

But in the end, she becomes one more thing he can not have.

 

 

 

He always thought it would be on him. That Billy would get to her. Or some other guy trying to hurt him.

 

No.

 

 

 

She gets strung into the Devil's mess. He's the one who shows up at their doorstep one night, covered in blood and the sight of it makes Frank freeze on the spot. He knows it's Karen's. Knows instantly that she's gone before Murdoch can say a word.

 

Even now, even though she was taken from them, the man is still stuck in his morals. Still can't finish the job.

 

But he doesn't hesitate a second to lead Frank right to the man who took her from him.

 

He wants to make it last. Wants the bastard to know true pain, to beg and whimper until he forgets who he even is before he finishes him. But he can barely hold his hand steady enough to aim the gun. Still, he takes the shot. Brain and blood painting the brick wall red.

 

It's the last time he takes a life. Knows that if he doesn't stop now then he never will, and Karen did not want that for him.

 

 

 

He doesn't go to see her in the morgue. Is stoic even when the cops show up to inform him of what he already knows – he was her emergency contact, after all. They offer condolences but he never says a word.

 

Lifeless, pale. That's not how he wants to remember her. Those images will burn into his memory like they did with Maria and the children. Shredded, blood-soaked in his arms.

 

No.

 

He wants to remember her the way she was when she left for work that morning. Kissing him goodbye with a smile curling her lips, all the promises of the future making her glow. Giggling softly as he tried to pull her back into bed.

 

He should have.

 

God, he should have.

 

 

 

The day after the funeral, when Karen's parents have left for Vermont again and he can stop pretending, he gets a dog from a shelter, knowing that if he doesn't, he'll pull the trigger of his gun one last time.

 

She's a lively little thing, yapping and squeaking and wiggling her tail every time she spots him. Karen would have adored her. Would have spoiled her rotten.

 

 

 

Curtis comes over every now and then. With coffee, with beer or with no excuse at all. He doesn't make him talk. Not here, not at group. It takes him two months to go back there. He's quiet now, listening to the others.

 

There's nothing more he has to say.

 

 

 

David and Sarah invite him for dinner again and again. Most of the time, he declines. Some days, he visits. Takes the dog to play with Leo and Zach, avoids the way Sarah looks at him with pity and David's awkward attempts at showing him he's here for him.

 

 

 

For a while, he considers leaving town. Starting fresh someplace else. But he was born here. There's nothing for him elsewhere, and wherever he might go, he'll take them with him. Maria. Frankie. His baby girl. Karen. There's no place he can run to where they they wouldn't follow.

 

Some days, he pulls his gun from the small drawer in the beside table. Karen's cherry chap stick and lavender hand lotion still in there. Unused. His finger traces the trigger. Shiny but just as unused. He hasn't cleaned it in months.

 

It would be easy. Pulling the trigger.

 

But he promised Zach and Leo to come over next weekend. He can't do that to them. Can't let them down like that. The dog nudges his ribs as if she _knows_. Yawns and licks his cheek. He can't abandon her, either.

 

 

 

So he stays. Realizing one day, as he walks her by the river, that this... _this_ is after.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing for this fandom and it's needless to say I'm extremely nervous about it, about getting it (and especially the characters) right. But I fell in love with these two much more than I wanted to and I needed to get this out of my system. Even though it's sad. Who am I kidding? I needed to write it _because_ it's sad *sigh*
> 
> Now I need fluff. Cotton candy fluff.


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